“His name was writ in water.” Yes, too young
The minstrel perished to have earned a name,
To face the cold blight of the critic's tongue,
And his fresh laurels cankered ere they came.

Loved Adonais? martyr to the boon
Which the gods gave, or promised, at his birth!
Think,—in lamenting that he died so soon,
How few such memories live so long on earth!

Full oft must obloquy precede renown:
Ere the saint's picture wear its ring of light,
The living head must feel the thorny crown;
The stars!—where were they, if there came no Night?

Know, love, the poet must not yield alone
Honey and roses,—fire must dwell within;
The fairest flesh must underneath have bone,
The fiercest beast may wear the softest skin.

And something rough and resolute and sour
Must with the sweetness of the soul combine;
For, although gentleness be part of power,
'T is only strength makes gentleness divine.